Ice Fair
by Viskey HeroMouse
Summary: A little trip down memory lane for Henry, and Jo is right by his side, discovering things that were lost, but won't be lost again.


**Hey. I wrote this piece as a part of a longer story, but found that it just didn't fit in with the rest. But I like the atmosphere of it, so I decided to just take it out and post it as a stand-alone snippet.**

 **Set after the series, so Jo knows Henry's secret. And sorry for the sap.**

* * *

Jo was grateful for Henry's invitation to come back over to his place, because after this day, she really didn't feel like being alone.

Abraham rustled up what must have been the simplest meal she'd ever got in his house, but it was tasty nonetheless. She suspected that Abe was just incapable of cooking something even just mediocre. But more important than that, the meal came with warm, welcoming company. Abe made lame jokes, and a few good ones, and Henry laughed at all of them. It sounded a bit forced in the beginning, but he, like her, had a need for lightness and harmony. And as the evening dragged on, his laughs became more real, and Jo found that she very much liked him laughing. It suited him well, he really should do it more often.

Finally they retired to the living room, with Abe staying behind in the kitchen to make them a nice cup of coffee.

Jo dropped down on the couch, reclined into the cushions and sighed; the tension of the day finally seeping from her muscles.

Henry sat down next to her. "That much of a bad day?" he asked softly.

"You have to ask?" Sometimes she really couldn't believe that guy. He had been there, it had affected him just as it had affected her. Dead children did that to you.

"You're right," he conceded.

"Tell me something, something nice," she asked after a beat.

He scooted a little closer, and she shot him a suspicious sideways glance.

"It will be nicer if I tell it in a low voice."

He was such a bullshitter sometimes, but she let it go, because she wanted niceness, not quarrel, not even a good-humoured one.

"Now, close your eyes," he instructed in a voice just barely over a whisper, and when she complied, he continued, "and imagine winter ..."

The picture sprang up in her mind immediately, Central Park lying still under a white blanket of snow, the ponds frozen over, leafless trees reaching up into a grey sky ...

"... in London, not New York," he finished his sentence.

"I don't know London, on account of that I've never been there," she told him, but even as she said it, the picture in her mind morphed into a bird's eye view of London with all the notorious landmarks: Big Ben, Tower Bridge, London Eye ...

"Don't worry about that, I'll describe it for you."

Damn, he really had to talk faster if he wanted to keep up with her imagination.

"We're at the shore of the Thames, the ground under our feet is covered with snow as we walk toward the river, but don't fear, it's frozen over."

She wanted to point out that rivers didn't freeze over outside of Russia, but didn't want to interrupt him.

"To our left there is the old London Bridge. Built of stone it rested on many arches, and on top of it were houses. You could walk over that bridge and hardly know you were crossing the river. It looked like just any other street in London."

Oh, now she got it. He wasn't talking about contemporary London, but some past version of it. "What year are we in?"

"Oh, I didn't mention that, did I?"

"Nope."

"It's the early 1800s, 1805. That was a good year."

She wondered why.

"Now we take our first step out onto the Thames. There are patches of snow, edges of ice floes sticking up, but there have been paths swept clean of snow, leading to the middle of the river. The air is pristine around us, our breaths form little clouds in front of us."

Unvoluntarily she huddled a little closer, just imagining it making her feel cold.

"The wind changes, and now wafts of mulled wine drift over, roasting sausages, and thick, spicy soup."

It was crazy, but she could almost really smell it all.

"Music is playing. A bit crude, but what it lacks in artistry it makes up for in joyousness and high spirits. People are lauging, dancing ... trying to skate and landing on their behinds."

"And, were you one of those who tried?" She teased.

"I was quite good at it, I'll have you know," he claimed.

"Sure." She bit her lip to suppress a bout of giggles.

"Fine, don't believe me then. But believe me, even if you were good, falls were unavoidable. We are not talking about artifical ice-rinks like they have today, where the ice is all smooth and even. We had bumps and leafs and random dirt frozen into it."

It made a weird kind of sense, so she let it rest. She couldn't possibly win against him when it came to historic details, anyway. "And did they really roast sausages? On the ice? Wasn't that ... I don't know ... a bit dumb? Making fire on a frozen over river?"

"They not only roasted sausages but even entire pigs. - But of course they didn't do it directly on the ice. Most of the roasting was done ashore, or on gangplanks. We were not entire idiots back then, you know."

"Sorry."

For a moment they sat in silence.

"I went every year," he said, his voice low and wistful. "Fairs today are loud and wild, but back then, they were wonderous, miraculous events, especially for young boys. And when it takes you to the middle of the river, it is even better. It allows you a spectacular view of the city you don't normally get. The ice and snow cover all the dirt and stink. Everything is quiet. And although the air is filled with chatter and laughter and music, there is a tranquility around you. The quietness comes from seeing the world, not from hearing it. The world stands still around your little island of bustle and high spirits. It makes you feel so alive when everything around you seems dead."

She swallowed. She knew he was a talker, she hadn't known he was also a poet. "Who did you go with?" she asked after a moment, and her voice was thicker than she liked.

"First my father and mother, on occasion together with friends. Later I went by myself."

She looked over at him, an saw that he had his eyes closed now, lost in memories.

"After Nora and I got married, I went with her. We used to dream of the day we would take our children. Of course, that never happened."

"Sorry."

He shook his head. "Not just because of what happened between her and me, but because 1814 was the last year the Thames froze over. Nora and I went in February, we were there on the very last day of the fair, in fact. We danced, ate gingerbread and pork until we felt sick, drank hot wine until we couldn't walk straight if our life dependet on it."

"Did you skate?"

He chuckled. "After a certain amount of wine there is no such thing as skating."

"So you had fun." She was glad to hear that he'd had good times with Nora. She always had the impression that that marriage had been a very unlucky one.

He smiled happily. "It was the perfect ending to our marriage." The smile never leaving his face. "We spent a drunk night together, and the next day she returned home to our house in the country , and I stayed in London, arranging my passage to America."

Jo knew the rest. He had had his first death on that voyage.

"That year they tore the Bridge down, built a new one that offered less obstacles to the flow of the Thames, ice floes didn't get caught anymore between buttresses that were built too close too each other. Progress can be a wonderful thing, Jo, but sometimes beautiful things get lost within. I know it cannot be stopped, and it shouldn't be stopped, don't get me wrong."

"But sometimes it feels like it's not worth it?" she guessed.

"No. Progress is a good, it is necessary. But sometimes ... Sometimes beautiful things get lost. It is comforting that I am still here to remember them."

But it also made him sad, she could tell, that there was nobody who shared those memories with him. "You know, you can always tell me about all of those things, share them with me like you shared the ice-fair," she offered. "If you tell me, it's not really lost."

He smiled, hugging her closer to him for a second. "Thank you."

A hurrumphing sound came from their left.

"Ah, Abraham." Henry let go of her immediately.

"Coffee's ready." Abe held up the tray he was carrying. "If you're still in the mood for it."

Jo slid to the edge of the couch, patting the coffee table in front of her. "I'm a cop, I'm always in the mood for coffee, bring it on."

* * *

Hope you liked it. The last ice fair in London, btw, ended on February 5th 1814. In case you wondered. ;)


End file.
